Guardian Angel
by 3theCaptain
Summary: Through all of Jack's travels, he keeps coming back to one little village in the woods and one strangely familiar girl with brown hair. And even though he doesn't remember her, he never abandoned his little sister. [Oneshot, short, heartwarming.]


**Guardian Angel**

Jack's a pretty common name.

Sometimes I hear my name called in the street, and I turn. I _always_ turn. Just in case, you know, they want to see me. It always turns out they're calling for someone else, but still. I keep thinking that _maybe_, just one time, it'll be for me. And when it does, I don't want to miss it.

It was pretty rough in the early days - I... I don't really like to think about those days. The first things I remember from the pond were the cold and the dark, but the first few days of my life - you know, dealing with being invisible and all - were different. They were... how do I put it? Sharper. Like someone had taken cold and dark and put them to a grindstone before putting them to me. People could stare right at me - right _through_ me - and have no idea I was there. I could jump up and down, fly before their eyes, yell, shout, s_cream_, and no one would -

Sorry. I said I don't like thinking about it.

Anyway, I hear the name 'Jack' tossed around all the time, but there was this one instance in particular, from a girl named Mary, that was different somehow...

Hold it. Let me back up. Mary was around eight years old when I first woke from the pond. I'm not sure what she was up to my first few days. Like I said, I don't like thinking about them.

I do know that once I'd pulled myself back together I wandered into town and there she was, her head resting in her hands, staring out her bedroom window, crying. She was wearing all black. Poor kid. She must have been in mourning.

My face scrunched up in confusion when I caught sight of her face. Red and blotchy though it was, there was just something about her, you know? Something _so_... familiar.

Whatever it was, I was struck by a wave of grief. I don't know why, but seeing her upset tore up my insides.

"Hey, hey," I said softly, "everything's okay..." I reached out my hand to put it on her shoulder, but it just slipped right through, like she was nothing but air. Suddenly, I realized: her name was Mary. I don't know how I knew that; I just did.

Oh, and I can't cry. I learned that over my... over my first few days. I'm just too cold, apparently. Tears can fill my eyes, but they freeze if they get any further and then I'm stuck with these droplets frozen to my skin.

Like I said: I can't cry, but right then I sure felt like it. With a small sad smile, I gently rapped my staff against the window pane, conjuring tendrils of feathery frost creeping across the glass.

She sniffled and pondered my creation with curiosity.

"Heh. You like that?" I asked. After a moment of consideration, I smirked. With a swing of my staff, a gust of wind blew open her windows, whipping through her room in a small hurricane of activity. She gasped, from the surprise or the sudden cold I wasn't sure. I drooped icicles from her ceiling, painted white frost thick up her walls, and spun a snowstorm right there in her bedroom. Within a minute, every surface was gleaming with an inch of snow.

Her room was a wonderland. Her tiny mouth agape, she rubbed her eyes in disbelief.

"Come on, Mary, don't be afraid, have fun!" I scooped up a handful of snow, molded it into a ball - oddly enough, its surface turned pale blue under my fingertips - and tossed it at the side of her head. In front of her eyes burst a thin network of blue frost, and her eyes lit up with happiness. She burst out laughing and started tossing the snow with joyful abandon.

Well, after that afternoon with little Mary, the floodgates were opened. Finally, I'd found something to do, something I was good at - no, something I was the _best_ at! I'd never be alone, but more importantly? I'd never be _bored!_

And I _loved_ it: playing pranks, sparking mayhem, wreaking snow days and spontaneous snowball fights all the way from Red Square to the Andes. But the kids - ah, the _kids!_ They were the best part. Their wackiness, their energy, their sheer recklessness in the face of danger: _god_ I loved it. I'd challenge myself to think up new creative ways to mess with the adults (imagine a scenario involving a toboggan, the last snow of winter, and a visiting dignitary) and I always pushed myself to improve; to do the most I could without hurting anyone, to make the most impressive "natural" phenomena ever.

And all the while I looked after Mary. I just felt protective of her, right from the start. Like I was responsible for her, more so than for any of the other children. She loved everything I did, but especially icicles. I occasionally messed with her head by hanging them from her bedroom ceiling in July.

When I wasn't busy stirring up trouble, I maintained my pond meticulously. When the kids went out on ice skates I just - I don't know what it was, but I always got this sick feeling in my gut, like one of those deep-rooted fears you can never explain. On skating days, I froze the pond solid like one big hunk of ice. _No_ kid was going to fall through: _no one_. Especially not Mary.

And no one ever did. After a few years the townsfolk started saying the pond had its own guardian angel. They didn't credit me, of course (no one ever does); they said it must have been the spirit of some boy who'd fallen through the ice a while back, keeping everyone safe. From what I gather, he must have died some time before I awoke from the pond. I wish I'd have been there. Maybe I'd have been able to help him.

I did leave the town eventually. I saw so many spectacular places. Man, you haven't lived until you've seen Paris' Latin Quarter glittering with frost, or tossed yourself off a Himalayan mountain peak, or surprised a bunch of kids in a camel caravan with a flurry! _Ha_, those desert nomads had to invent a new word that day!

But every winter I always returned to that little town by my pond. It changed and grew and so did the kids, but there were always more of them squealing with delight as they skidded along the icy roads. What I cherished in particular were their _expressions_. No feeling in the world beats the face of a four-year-old when they step out their door and see the forest and town all silent and crystalline in the morning sun.

My life's not all just noise and jubilee, though. Sometimes things slow down and I take my time. Sometimes I see a pair walk hand-in-hand down the street. At times like that, I make is snow lightly, pleasantly, and clear the sky just enough to let ol' Man in the Moon smile down at them through the treetops. Seeing them all wrapped up in their own little world gives me this sort of quieter, stranger feeling. Maybe it's what being warm feels like.

But one day I returned to the town by my pond and... she was old. It had happened so gradually I barely even noticed it. Sure, I'd watched her sprout like a pine tree and start braiding her hair, I wrinkled my nose when she blushed as some punk crossed her path, and I tossed snowballs at her kids as they first waddled then _ran_ through my snow. But it chilled me to the bone (well, figuratively speaking) when one day I looked at her and realized her hair was as white as mine. Her face was as worn as the grooves in my staff, her gait labored.

I knew she got cold at nights so I did my best to stay away. I made sure her doorsteps were never slick and tried my hardest to keep drafts from slipping through her walls. Every day she'd smile at people passing in the street, poke fun at her grown-up children, lift _their_ children up onto her lap telling stories. But beneath all that, I could feel darkness seep into her bones. Like I could feel shadows bloom through the forest or gloom creep under the bed, I could feel Mary grow a little dimmer each day.

I remember going to the Moon for help. I asked him - _begged _him to help her, or even to just give me a response for once in my miserable life other than just sitting there never answering my questions because sometimes I get so alone and I don't know what to do or who to go to and sometimes when the snow melts and there's nothing to do and nothing to distract me I just

feel

so

help

less -

...

...

...

She wasn't the first to die, of course. It had been sixty or so years since I'd woken up, so... I've seen them go by carriage accidents, consumption, the pox, you name it. Not freezing, of course: I'd never do that! The weather continues on its own when I'm not around. I hear that sometimes people die in blizzards, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach thinking about them. That I could have helped them, that I might have been able to do something if I'd just _been _there -

... Well... anyway. One evening as the sun was setting Mary settled into her chair by the fire and I knew it was time.

She rested her head against the back of her chair and stared out the window. She must have been enjoying the view; I'd painted tendrils of frost lightly across her window, and made the trees radiant with icicles. Her favorite. Yet... despite the scenery, it almost felt like she was looking right at me.

Her familiar brown eyes smiled, wrinkling up her face. In her soft old woman's croon, she said, "I see you, Jack." Then she softly closed her eyes, almost like falling asleep, and I could feel her little flame flicker out.

I smiled. It was her brother's name, of course: the boy who had fallen through the ice all those years ago. But for a while, I could pretend that she was saying my name, thanking me for being her guardian all these years. A fool's fantasy, I know, but still. It meant a lot to me.

Jack's a pretty common name, after all.

* * *

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[A/N: You like Portal and Half-Life, right? Of course you do. Then read my main story, _Between Minds!_]

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